


Weightless

by SandrC



Series: Eldritch-tober 2020 [2]
Category: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)
Genre: Alas poor Robert, At the Mountains of Dadness - Freeform, Dreams and Nightmares, Drowning, Eldritch Abominations (Cthulhu Mythos)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26767186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: Beneath the ocean is a void where up and down are lost to the weightlessness of drowning.(And what lies below is unseen in the vacuum of sensation.)
Series: Eldritch-tober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950820
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Weightless

**Author's Note:**

> Two in so little time!
> 
> I genuinely love these little prompts. They're fun and easy to do, to some degree.
> 
> 02: the Void

Robert has dreams of this place.

They're not _good_ dreams. By and large, they're actually more _nightmares_ than _dreams_ , but semantics are lost on him in this moment. Forget semantics. Just facts.

_Robert has dreams of this place._

In his dreams it is storming, like that night so many years ago. The tendrils beneath the waves writhe and grasp and he presses himself flat against the deck and prays that it won't notice him. But _unlike_ the actual event, in these dreams it catches him in a strong grip and drags him deep into the depths with it.

He can never see what it looks like. In his dreams he knows this is a blessing. He knows, even then, that the phrase "shape of madness" applies to this... _thing_. Beneath the ocean, in the void and cold and blackness of drowning, the waves above him look like storm clouds. He thinks, idly, of the weightlessness of space and the moon and aliens.

He, a child with the dreaming brain of a grown man, wonders if death is the same or if this is a punishment of some sort.

The water is black and he cannot see and gravity does not pull on him and he floats, endless, in the depth and breadth of this space between spaces. Then the thing grabs him and it feels like his parents hugging him and it feels like the time a dog caught hold of his pants leg and shook him so hard he thought it would tear his skin and it feels like missing a step when walking down the stairs and thinking "this is it".

He usually wakes up then.

_This_ is not a dream.

He takes it by the hand— _his_ , not the thing's, though he is certain if he closed his eyes and pretended, it would have hands and a face and a form, but his eyes are bound open in true horror and terror—and shakes and it unmakes him.

And it _remakes_ him.

It is _so similar_ to his dreams—a blackness, a weightlessness, a cold that seeps into his bones and his lungs and his soul, storm clouds above, nothing below—and so _dissimilar_ to them—colors he doesn't have names for, a pain that persists even when he cries for it all, the inability to close his eyes and make the visions go away, the droning shrieking noises of exaltation to this thing that has him finally.

He floats, in the nothingness, in the _everything_ , and cannot die; fuel for whatever the master of this realm is.

Robert has dreams of this place, this moment, these feelings.

He dreams and it is satiated.


End file.
